


as leaves fall to the ground

by ALC_Punk



Category: Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who: Virgin New Adventures - Various Authors
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 05:01:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13651953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALC_Punk/pseuds/ALC_Punk
Summary: Clara Oswald hasn't always known there's a house on Allen Road. And a chance encounter in front of it after the events surrounding W3 doesn't really help her come to terms with knowing.





	as leaves fall to the ground

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure when this originally started, but it sort of was hinged upon the idea that Clara remembers all of the Clara pieces after Trenzalore, and that a part of her doesn't wish to and finding things that she _remembers_ doesn't quite terrify her. And I thought her meeting Seven would be basically both of them being cryptic and confirming nothing (because Seven was like that, and Clara knows about causality). And then I stalled out and got nowhere. And it's still very much nowhere, but at least it's got more than twenty words and finished.   
>  The title is me desperately flipping through media player and comes from the Pet Shop Boys' 'October Symphony' which is bittersweet to say the least. And I'm hoping I've not used it before.

Clara hasn't always known there is a house on Allen Road. There are a lot of things she hasn't always known that she knows or remembers or understands now (when she isn't ignoring them all).

But after Trenzalore, after regeneration and the saving of Gallifrey, she remembers it's there.

There's no shiny brochure that just turns up in her flat one day (like the Doctor landing his TARDIS in her bedroom; a part of her remembers Madame Vastra and words that cut, demeaning the very idea that the Doctor would ever look upon Clara as anything other than a lesser being). She simply just _knows_. Perhaps one of her past lives, one of the previous or future Claras has been there. It's not something she really likes to think about.

Keeping her own life straight isn't so easy, with just _one_ memory. Keeping thousands straight, all over the universe... she doesn't like to think about that, either.

It's simpler to ignore them. To box them away and pretend that they don't really exist as part of her. Though, sometimes, they're close enough to the surface to be of assistance in whatever adventure the Doctor has taken her on.

He's not taken her to Allen Road, though. She wonders if _he_ remembers it. Perhaps, with the timelines adjusting, he never has. 

Like an itch to be scratched, she finally gives in to the memory, to the urge. She sets out for Allen Road, taking the longest route possible. Eventually, she walks down the street to the address she knows well.

There is a house there, set back from the road. It's at once ancient and new, built in the last century (long before bombs fell on London, it stood. And long after London is nothing but dust will it still stand--she doesn't like to think about Ravalox, though). The shutters are closed, the door-knocker off. Or perhaps its fallen somewhere to the side, disused and abandoned after all this time.

No one visits Allen Road anymore. Those that remember don't need to, and those that need to... well, Clara isn't certain any of them remember anymore. 

How many times has he rewritten time at this point? Is it enough to make Allen Road an obscurity, a nothing? How many times has her dying helped rewrite that time?

Movement from her left brings the world into further clarity. There is a man standing to her side, looking at her. For an instant, there's something threatening about him, then the instant passes and he's just another elder gentleman with his funny hat and spats.

"I know you, don't I." Clara doesn't ask, of course. Asking would imply that she doesn't know (and she does, but she doesn't want to know).

The little man looks at her, something assessing in his gray eyes. Then he says, "Yes."

No elaboration, no explanation. No _in_. Not grasping at straws, she looks around the house in front of them, studying the weathered boards and the one window where the shutter is crooked. "I knew there'd be a house, here. On Allen Road."

She's known lots of things, since Trenzalore. Some of them terrify her, some of them thrill her. Most of them, she doesn't want to know. She remembers when a thrown rock impacted the shutter and the gunshot that followed afterwards. Another life saved, another Clara gone. 

"I suppose it is."

"And you're--" But there Clara stops, because there is a big something that she doesn't want to know. Not ever. And it's staring her in the face with a cream-colored suit and a stupid panama hat and a question-mark umbrella.

"Yes."

That gravelly dead-pan drives her a little to distraction. Unwisely, she blurts, "I don't ever need a key to get in. Do you?"

"So you've been inside, then?"

Of course not. Not ever. Of course she hasn't, she's only seen the house just now as she walked up the path to it. He was there (always), like a spider in a web. Turning and twisting, weaving until she--

Clara swallows and fights the urge to turn and run. _I know who you are_ is a dangerous thing to say when you don't want to remember everyone you are.

"You've never wondered how you always remember?" He asks, taking the initiative before she can even draw breath to say her farewells. Now his eyes bore into hers (she's always so used to the Doctor standing over her--gangly, then old and spry; yet always taller), they're on the same level.

"No, never."

They both know it's a lie.

"Danny," blurts Clara. As though he's the shield to protect her from all the undercurrents (and the world). The house isn't her focus, suddenly. It's the lies and the obfuscations (why didn't she ever just come straight out and tell him the truth?). "It's all about Danny, isn't it."

The little man looks at her, his eyes suddenly blank. Dark and gray, swirls of light--not real eyes, of course. "Danny who?"

And Clara smiles. The sort of smile that if she'd had a mirror would have frightened her. The sort of smile she's learnt from _him_. "Yes. That's the question, isn't it."

"Perhaps it always has been."

"I don't think I'm going in today." Clara feels more certain of something, though she can't place a finger on what. She half-turns to go. The traffic hasn't picked up on Allen Road, and she wonders how long it will take her to get back to where she belongs. 

"Perhaps tomorrow."

"Yes."

And perhaps tomorrow never comes when the world ends in a car crash and a world invasion and Clara planning to kill someone in cold blood--even if that was yesterday. 

Clara isn't going to think about it anymore than she thinks about what she is owed.

After all, the universe doesn't make _bargains_ anymore than Santa Claus is a real person or everyone lives. She knows better than that. 

-f-


End file.
